


Build with the Stones We Have

by jat_sapphire



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Episode: s04e08 Operation Susie, Episode: s04e14 No Stone, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 12:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15819090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: In one of Bodie's caches, Bodie and Doyle come to a new understanding.





	Build with the Stones We Have

Bodie kept a car—more than one—in private storage. As well as the car, this particular cache was full of indistinct masses of Bodie’s property, shrouded in dustsheets.   And then there were whatever other caches he had.

Doyle wasn’t in the least surprised. The Bodie who had always claimed to be out for himself, to have joined CI5 for the money, to have concentrated, in Ireland, on keeping his own head on his shoulders—that man would never have put all his future and faith in Cowley’s promises even if they had never been broken.

What shocked Doyle into silence was that Bodie had told him, had brought him here, opened the car's passenger door, and sat Doyle down. Now he was sideways on the seat, holding three passports he’d just pulled out of the glove box. Each bore a name he’d never seen before and his own photograph. Bodie stood with one elbow on the top of the car door, hand dangling, and the other hand braced on top of the car. He was watching with that blank, bland face that meant fear.

No one else would have known it. But since Venue Two, when Bodie had asked, “You scared?” and confessed he was too, “All the time,” Doyle had known this expression. Usually he only saw it on an op, when it was the mirror of his own. It was all wrong for Bodie to have frozen his face while showing Doyle his secrets.

Doyle tried to make the moment easier by saying, “So, we’re running now?” with an eyebrow raised and a quirk at the end of his mouth that could have become a smile, depending on Bodie’s reaction. But Bodie just pressed his lips together and looked down.

“I should thank you,” Doyle tried again, lifting the passports a little.   “If we ever need these, there’ll be no time to get them, I know that.”

“They’re illegal,” Bodie said, still looking down.

“Yeah. Well, I’d rather travel as myself, of course, but …”

Bodie glanced up, then back down. He still held himself as if expecting a blow, or at least a reproof.

Ray put the passports back, closed the glove box, and then put his hand up to Bodie’s arm, near the shoulder. “You took a lot of trouble,” he said gently, “and you’re trusting me even more than usual. I don’t know what’s the matter, but … but I don’t see anything to be, to feel ashamed of, or nervous about.” He laughed a little. “Mate, I’m just babbling here. Trying to say it’s all right, whatever it is. Yeah?”

At last Bodie’s eyes lifted, lightened, and he pursed his lips in a more familiar way. “Don’t think we need ‘em yet,” he said, “but this last op made me … you know we’ve defused plenty of bombs. Without any of that armour. Don’t know if I’d volunteer again.”

“Don’t you?” Doyle asked. “I think I do. Not like we’ve been wrapping ourselves in cotton wool.”

“Might want to start,” Bodie said vehemently. “We’re not young Turks anymore.” He reached for Doyle’s hair, but instead of his usual rub over the top, he fingered the sideburn and the curls above it. Ray knew very well that he was grey there. He brushed off Bodie’s hand and stood up out of the car. Now they were all but toe to toe, and Ray laid his palms on either side of Bodie’s waist, saying nothing but holding Bodie’s gaze. That waist was larger than it had been even half a year ago.

“Yeah,” Bodie said, so dully that Ray slid his hands around until his hold was more an embrace than not.

“Don’t tell me you brought me here because—”

“What if I can’t save you, Ray? Can’t back you up? You think I was scared when we were so over-trained we could hardly rest, knew every way to shoot up every room in the venue, and not now? I’m fuckin’ terrified, mate, even without Operation bloody Susies when anybody could be shooting at us. Makes me want to get in this car and go straight to the Channel Ferry and, and,” Bodie lifted both hands, then let them fall.

“You look at me,” Doyle said. “Right in my eyes, while I’m holding you,” and he tightened his grip. “Eight years we’ve been partners, and you’ve fought for me, fought Cowley for me, found me when I was lost, kidnapped, shot—there’s nothing more. Nothing better you could have done. Don’t you run away from me thinking it’s for my sake.”

“That’s not why I got you passports,” Bodie admitted. “Not why I showed them to you today.”

“No, but that was panic just now.” Ray squeezed again. “No more panic.”

For the first time since they’d met in the morning, Bodie’s mouth relaxed, even curved up into a smile. “So masterful, petal.”

Ray laughed in relief. “All right.” He let his arms relax, began to withdraw, but Bodie gripped his forearms, hard, and though his arms fell away from Bodie's waist, they were still standing too close, as if they were about to slow-dance or kiss. A kiss was what Ray wanted, suddenly. The idea made his breathing speed up, and all he could do was watch as Bodie's lips moved, made a new expression, and his eyes were grave and so, so blue.

“Why did you bring me here, then?” Ray hadn't meant to lower his voice, but now it was soft. “Why show me ...” and while he was choosing words, Bodie leaned in, slid his hands up past elbow and biceps to shoulders, and pressed their lips together.

Doyle had often seen Bodie kissing birds, little pecks to say hello or goodbye or sorry; sweet, charming, slow kisses; open-mouthed do-you-soon kisses; he didn’t remember any like this. This was firm, even forceful, lips barely parted, tongue ready but not pushing in. Doyle returned it the same way, and realised it was a long-term kiss, the kind that assumed years. If this was a proposal … Ray pulled back, and put his hands on each side of Bodie's face. “Yes,” he answered. “Run or dig in. Tell Cowley or not. Streets or desks or anywhere we work. CI5 flat or get our own. Long as you'll put up with me.”

Bodie's face lit with joy, then with mischief. “Well, there is that temper of yours,” he said.

“And your sodding Swiss rolls and fried bread.” Doyle took Bodie's mouth again: better than talking. This time he licked in, tasting, tickling, and when Bodie responded as eagerly, could not help the moan in his throat, or the way he pressed forward because any inch of his body not touching Bodie seemed an inch wasted. As each kiss ended, they mapped each other’s faces and necks with fingertips and little touches of lips, then back to kiss deeply again.

After all these years of working together as closely as right hand and left, holding Bodie with love felt as new as spring and as familiar. Had Ray never seen properly how his lips sloped from his nose, especially when he pouted; how the curls—yes, curls, though Bodie would deny it—clustered at the nape of his neck, drew away above his temples, bunched at his fringe? His eyelashes clumped adorably even when they were dry, and the creases in his neck smelled delicious.

Too soon, Bodie took a quick breath and turned his head, broke away and sneezed enormously. He scrabbled in his pockets, one after another, so Doyle got out his own handkerchief and gave it to him to hoot away in and wipe his hand. “Dust,” they said together.

A helplessly fond smile on his face, Doyle said, “Come on, then. Let's put the sheets back up and get your tender nose out of here.”

“Can think of places I'd rather have it, yeah.” Bodie looked him up and down.

They locked up and covered the car. Bodie locked the garage doors. They walked back to the Capri, turning and misleading, keeping a careful eye out to see if anyone was following them. Doyle thought not, but then, they'd been trailed during the Operation Susie without noticing it. As they’d been doing since the bomb at Ryton Square, they checked around and in the vehicle for explosive devices, which surely was scaring Bodie again every time they did it, but Doyle was not willing to stop while they were here in London, in CI5. But they might not be in CI5 forever.

“Yours or mine?” Bodie asked, hand on the gearshift, and Ray started to laugh.

“We’ve got the whole world, sunshine. You gave it to us.” He covered Bodie’s hand and squeezed it.

“Years ago. You just didn’t know. Would it have made a difference if I’d shown you before? Are you really ready to quit the Squad?”

“I don’t know.” Doyle took a minute to think: of being Cowley’s best team, of taking down people like Ulrike and Hockley—of seeing Cookie’s empty stare as he lay dead on the ground. Having to tell June. How much of the wild freedom he was feeling right now was really guilt? What balance was there between the good they did and the pain they caused—Ray caused? “I don’t know. You?”

“I don’t know either.” Bodie laughed. “Dozy sods, aren’t we? Sleep on it?”

Doyle put the dilemma out of his mind, as much as he could, and rubbed the back of Bodie’s hand, trying to remember whether he had ever touched his partner just like this. Ray thought not: surely he would have remembered this damp silk. “Sleep with you first. And your place is closer.”

“Mine it is.” But before Bodie started the engine, he leaned over and kissed Ray once more, the proposal kind of kiss.

Ray wondered, as they drove, if the whole morning had been planned, kissing included. As if Bodie wanted to lay out what their joint resources could be, emotions as well as property: what they had to build their future with. Then he decided it didn’t matter. “We’ll build with the stones we have, and build strong.”

“That’s right,” Bodie said, and put his foot down. The car, and Doyle’s heart, jumped.

**Author's Note:**

> I meant this to be a story with an actual plot, but it would go no farther than this. I think of the episodes, in this story, as occurring in production rather than in broadcast order, though it probably doesn't matter to the reading.
> 
> “We should build with the stones we have” is, the Internet tells me, a Swedish proverb.


End file.
